How I write

I am an autodidact writer, and enough an artist to draw upon my imagination of a child within, that is, I still keep my dream alive, malgré-tout. I lose contact with my muse for, sometimes_work, daily train-train, and necessary household duties obliged, then it’s timeout for hobbies, and the like. But, _”chase the natural, it comes back in gallops,”like the French adage said, isn’t it? Then, here I am on the road, on stage, to write; it’s a one-stand alone, in a one- man-show,  facing a blanc page.

Courtezy Lynette Noni

So I never consider a blanc page as a void, but a space to my passerby thoughts, so I frame it the moment it shows up, whether I was doodling on a scrap of paper, or a Sketchbook. A blanc page is your best confident friend, like a book is your companion. A blanc page never complains about how you trait it, and always gives you back what you put on it, and then you’re left by your own critics with your thoughts. “Seize the thing, and the words will flow, ” Cicero said, and draw a ligne to, fix the moment when you see a glimpse of a picture , of an idea in front of you, like Cézane,  That’s all!

The rest is superfluous, besides , of what is the next idea in contrast, what are negative spaces next to positive space, light and shadows, chiaroscuro, and prose and poetry. All what left aside is pure artistic literature.

So, writing is never depressing, facing a blanc lets me draw imaginary lines in a frame, a widow to a universe beyond reality, to contemplate, like in a daydream, a perspective, to a fleeting wisp that resizes itself an instant, before being carried away by the flow of things that cross my mind, in a wisp of a frown: what are you thinking then, and what are you thinking now?

The Autodidact|act II

Money for nothing 

I had,in a daydream like, an encounter with an archdruid.
The poet said to me:
_Immagine it’s , like if it was a reconforting answer addressed to you personally, for having been waiting so long for the muse to speak to me. A silent plea I flung to Heaven, but a prayer, then it came just like that, on time, for when you waited long for the least, after having all time a reject_someone that’s telling you:

Your story isn’t calm.
The road has been chaotic at times,
Filed with detours, and rains,
and loss so sudden, and soon.
Sometimes the bliss was so elevated
Your heart could hardly hold it.
Sometimes it was maddening to have,
And then to lose it. You learn soon enough
that it is hardly ever goes as planned–
gently, easy and smooth.
But that my friend,
is what makes fascinating
You have something to tell.
Something you walked through.
Something valid.
Something courageous,
Something true.
You’re made of stories
Within stories, even
more stories. Those
quiet depths of you.

_Victoria Erickson

Before that,I was reading a blog of Longreads,about an interview with the author Katherine Heiny,
Taking-the-slow-road Then, I came accros a poem of Victoria Erickson on Pinterest, so I left my gaze wandering through the boards sometimes untill I got a glimpse of something burgeoning in my mind for quite some time later on, so to stay in the clime of thoughts, something that looks frutescent down the road, that’s with a kick you excuviat to the open, like a bird taking his first flight from wich it was nestled under.

So, I just wanted to give it a try, and see what happens…

If I was given a chance to visit a place, it would be the Pantheon, in Paris, there it’s where they sleep for the eternity, all the writers, the poets, artists, and all the admited accadimician personalities to that honorable degree of reconnaissance. But that place is to quite to hear their flights and joultes, so I just returned to my muse to get inspired.

Me, personally I  wouldn’t imagine  be writing stories, one day, I didn’t take it seriously. Perhaps as a vacation hobby mostly more or less, than a vocational occupation. Of all the trades, surely it was the easiest one to fail in, anyway. There was no further success in the future of being a writer on those times of old Alger.Back then, I preferred reading to writing, and “my violin of Ingres”_my passion, went for drawing, since the early childhood. And I read a lot of books, the amount that one can fill the shelves of a communal library, (my father owned a bookstore, so you can imagine, and besides having at reach of my hand all the books you can read, people was more reader, and movies goers, the only TV program was black and white, and the broadcast was for more or less for five hours a day, and it started at 5/6 o’clock in the afternoon, and ended by the last newscasts at 10:30. Logically, that is was for the working class more than that for the élite or the bourgeoise class; the have salons and tea room, for playing bridge, and aristocratic activities, by snobbish to only sit and watch the TV. Than, after reading the poem of Victoria Erickson, “taking the slow road”, some decades later, and a few days lately, from reading I get enticed by writing little by little. I finally grabbed my courage, with both hands, and dodged it. It’s not that I’m afraid of writing or the criticism, but mostly by choice. And again, a maladive instinct for being ridiculous, since, some professionals activities were ill regarded Then. So, taking the risk, I said to myself, just sit down and gave it a try. I said to myself, see what happens, you have nothing to lose after all,  just a few dollars, a lot of scribbles, blank pages, but then, if it doesn’t work, before  tossing them away, make sure I haven’t thrown the baby–(you dream  would be-writer) — with the waters of the bath.

Paolo Coscelo wrote the Alchemist, 13 years ago, a million books best-seller now. The story, it starts with a dream, so believe in your dream, that’s all.

The story started something like this; ” one day…”_ or one night?…I don’t remember, I have read the book 13 years ago, since then, you know. If you haven’t read the book:_ A shepherd fell asleep, he made a dream; an encounter with a strange character; the master of the world told, he told him something like, one has to make his one’s own history, or the sort. When he woke up, he found himself with a solemn urge for peregrinations, that he must pursue  his dream in order to get rich ; if he want to be married one day to the girl he loves. He had to make a choice; if he stayed around  and became a seller of popcorn  with his a cart instead of conducting  a herd to pastures, it’s more a respectable profession than a shepherd, and the father of the girl will look at him with more respect, he would travel also, not a lot, but he will see people, villages, and even could go to the city, but at the end of the day he would be back home to find the girl he love. She would be waiting for him, had cooked diner for him, they would sleep under the roof of a warm house, a small one for the beginning, then they  will move to a  bigger one, for that he need money, and while he was thinking about it, thence he fell asleep… His journey started in Spain, crossed the sea, Rabat where he got his job, then followed the caravans route across the Sahara desert and after a multitude of rellantendo, and peripeteias, he  finally reached Fayum, an oasis in the south of Egypt, to finish in to a monastery, the end of the trip.  Then, back home.

This a dream, it’s in a book, that came true. For a writer, it was the hit. A jackpot,  to win the Lotto, for the common of us. What about yours; mine, it was…

                                                                                 To be continued…

A friend asked me| your point of view

What The Difference Point of View Makes: Friends, and Foes…

“Imaginary Friend.”

I have a friend of mines, we know each other’s from childhood, that is, I hadn’t seen him since high-school, since then we lost touch; sometimes just after graduating. We used to walk a lot, in a group, wherever we go to see a movie or just to sit in a café, or to the park. And we had always conversations, usually after a movie or any things that bring to our attention, sometimes stirring conversations, never too serious  but often we terminated that by a good barrel of laughs. But there is one of them that I missed a lot, the most, he was my buddy, we always stick around with each other a little longer after the group had left and went home, to continue our small talk to a late hour.

Then, I recalled a situation in which we held, some sort of, a deft dialog: we were sitting in a café, having  coffees or tea, an empty brown bag creased on a table neglatedly facing us, among other things. Then, the shape it took gave an undefined image, and here it went; we started arguing about what one could see through the image, so that I interpreted it, I said that is was a brown bag reader.

So it all followed like this, more or less:

What you see is what you get
What you see is what you get

“You asked me to lend you my imagination.”

“Let me let you know first, my dear friend, it’s like a half-tamed stallion, before you ride on, that she is always at a gallop, still half-tamed. It took me too long to get along with her.”

“So” he said. “So, I said, Before anything, I had to seduce her, to cajole her dreams. We have been too often to reconcile with each other; she was always in departure, when I was just arriving. But little by little, I arrived, with time, to capture her want; to deal with one of hers a such fancy caprice of the moment, and to pardon her for being whimsical. Because, she was always in a stirring conversation with my muse, while I had to focus on my writing, so I am used to it now, and let her do her busy chit-chat, while I doodled on a blank page.”

“Wow wow, wow, tell me more,” he said.

“One day, ( I was a flight-attendant, then in my early career, ) in a trip I saw a yogi, sitting always at the same place, in a profound contemplation; he had a monkey who was busy going up and down, from the shoulder of the yogi to the ground, back and forth, while he was sitting, imperturbable in plain meditation.”

“The other day, when passing by, I found the monkey leashed to a post, and doing the same manège, whilst the yogi was sitting aside, paisibly immersed with his tranquil thoughts. I waited patiently nearby, until he drew back from his profound lethargy. Then, when I asked him humbly why he leashed the money to the post, out of knowledge he told me, confessing that he considered his companion’s  own state of mind with respect, and when he realized that his mind was also busy observing the monkey, and that distracted him from meditating, so he attached the monkey to a post and left his mind occupied by the monkey doing, and went back to his meditation. From then, I had a good lesson. Mind mine own business.”

” Ha, ha, Now, I understand, you have really a galloping imagination.”

I am an autodidact writer, and enough an artist to draw upon my imagination, when unleashed, You see, you can’t  go nowhere too far with her, maybe she can take you for a ride just down the street, but then she dis-saddled you right away when she became aware that you’re taking here somewhere too far, and don’t let you go with it; because she is my imagination.

Then, he said, it’s a lie, the truth is, “it depends of the point of view in which side where you stand”

I told him: ” you don’t have to believe me, but I asked you just to listen to me.”

I am enough an artist to draw up on my imagination. Imagination is more important then knowledge. Knowledge is limited, imagination encircles the world.
_Albert Einstein

And, again  I added;

“Give me a  fulcrum , and I will lift off the world”_Phitaghoras

After that we closed the chapter…we sat on a bunch and savored a sundae ice cream silently.